Somebody’s Baby…

I don’t know if it’s generally a Southern thing or particular to Louisiana, but ever since I’ve arrived in New Orleans I have been addressed on several occasions as “baby” and/or “Miss Catherine.”  

In most cases but not all, it’s an older African-American using the term baby.   I can’t explain it, but there is something very comforting about someone, even a stranger, calling me baby. It reminds me of my grandmother or my great Aunt Bea who used to fuss over me as a kid.  I haven’t been somebody’s baby for such a long time that I have forgotten how “secure” it makes me feel.  

Thank you, baby – as I hold the door open.

 It’s down the street and to your left, baby – as I ask for directions.

 How are you today baby? – as a waitress pours me a cup of coffee. 

Everything okay, baby? – as I stand on a street corner looking a little lost.

 Of course, all babies grow up, and since I am attending a conference at a large hotel, I’m usually sporting a name badge with my first name in big print.  Most of the service staff call me Miss Catherine when they see me.  

Me, a “Miss” – imagine?  I have been a Madame – or God forbid – a Ma’am for so long that I had forgotten was it was like to feel like a Miss.  But after being here for a few days I remember that it makes me feel positively coquettish.

 

 

 

Over Easy…

Outta this world...

My first real glimpse of life here in the Big Easy was Saturday night on Bourbon Street. Talk about sensory overload.  It’s a direct frontal assault of the five senses.  From the bling of beads and the flash of breasts to the glare of neon selling everything from sex to cigars, I didn’t know where to look first.  It was a kaleidoscope of color that changed from corner to corner as I made my way along the crowded street rubbing elbows (among other things) with all manner of people from t-shirt wearing tourists to conservatively clad businessmen. 

Smells spilled out from the doorways; some were deliciously identifiable while others made my stomach lurch as I hurried past – exhaling all the way. Once inside Bourbon House, I was greeted by spicy scents that made my mouth water in anticipation of a gumbo so tasty there was only one word, newly invented, to describe it: gumbo-licious!

 ‘Round midnight, I went in search of a nightcap of a more musical nature, passing first one bar then the next.  From the open doorways and windows, a riff or a phrase, would reach out to pull me inside.   “Just two minutes,” I would promise myself – but then two became five minutes, and five became fifteen, before I forced myself to leave and search for my next musical fix.  

 Overall, the night belonged somewhere in the realm of the sixth sense, an otherworldly event that worked its magic – cast its spell over me. Ah, I thought to myself, so this is witchcraft (or maybe it was voodoo).  After all, it is New Orleans.

The Rhythm of the City

Good morning

New Orleans and I operate on two different rhythms. The city is just going to sleep as I make my way to the French Quarter for early morning coffee and beignets at the Café du Monde.

On my first day in the Big Easy, as I passed by the deserted courtyard of the House of Blues, I was greeted by the familiar disco beat of Labelle’s, “Lady Marmalade”. For a moment I thought I was imagining it. So I stopped and listened and sure enough, there it was…

Patty Labelle and her sisters extending that unmistakable invitation in French — probably the best known French phrase in America. Voulez-vous?

It was the perfect a start for my first day in New Orleans — my own personal greeting. The quintessential anthem for a city that struts its stuff nightly on Bourbon Street.  You gotta love a city that comes with its own soundtrack!

Otra Vez!

What’s a business trip without a little pleasure?  So the first thing that’s  going into the suitcase this morning are the killer black and red stillettos purchased from Comme il Faut when I was in BsAs last month.

(Yes, yes, I’m also bringing the lap top  – the IT guys have got me up and running for this trip.)

Tango, Tango Nuevo and now Tango New Orleans.  My thanks to Arlene at Londontango for putting me in touch with Alberto and Valorie.  Lessons have been scheduled, and I am going to do my best to hit a practica  with Maria Elena and Enrique.

Eso!

The Devil Made Me Do It…

Care for a bite?

Athough I have been in a dating no man’s land lately,  I have to confess that I haven’t been quite celibate.  I did unexpectedly stumble upon a tiny oasis in the non-dating desert one night this past summer.  It happened at a local salsa club here in Montreal.  I really didn’t feel like going, but a friend had asked me to teach him salsa in preparation for an upcoming wedding.  

So thanks to him, I picked up my shoes, plucked up my courage, and headed for the club. It was crowded for a Monday night, but since it was early we caught a beginner group lesson.  Many dance clubs offer lessons at the beginning of the night, and it’s a good way to meet people and scope out potential dance partners for later in the evening. 

What usually happens is this: a practice session is set up so that the men on the outside of the circle rotate every few patterns or sequences. The women are on the inside of the circle. It’s a good system because you’re able to dance with a lot of different people. 

 That evening, during a break, I noticed a young man staring at me.  We exchanged smiles and a slight greeting. Later, we danced a couple of times during the rotation.

 After the group lesson, and few solo dances with my friend, I was ready to leave.  I was packing up my shoes when this young man approached me and struck up a conversation.  He was so natural about it and so at ease that after a few minutes I’d almost forgotten we had just met.  He was open and enthusiastic, and there was this sweetness about him. 

Men in this younger age group don’t carry a lot of baggage.  Life hasn’t yet taught them to be cautious and calculating the way it does some of the men (and women) of my generation.  The course of the conversation with this young man was so refreshingly different that I couldn’t make up my mind if wanted to kiss him or pat him on the head. 

 We talked about travel, career and life in general.  His question about my three life goals caught me off guard.  I hadn’t thought about that since – well since I was his age really.  His short list was action oriented whereas mine was more philosophical.  He wanted to take time off to travel, start his own business and learn as much as he could about life. 

 My short list included dwelling in tranquility, having more time and using it more wisely, and not squandering any opportunities along the way.   I’m not quite sure that he “got it” because when you’re young you always think you have more time. 

 Later, he offered to drive me home and I accepted.  As he pulled up in front of my building, he asked if I would like to go for a walk.  It was a balmy night, and the stars were out. I thought it would be a shame to waste such a night especially when it was one of the few nice nights we’d had all summer.  And so I accepted, but I had to do a few things first like change, use the bathroom and pick up some bottled water.

 My building is like Fort Knox, with security cameras everywhere and a vigilant doorman.  So I felt comfortable inviting him up to wait for me while I did what I had to do. Max, my doorman, gave me a little smile as my guest signed in.  I returned his smile with an “It’s not what you think” look. 

 Except that wasn’t quite true, and I wondered if that look was meant more to convince me than Max.   I had never done anything quite like this before.  The good angel on my right shoulder whispered “Lead us not into temptation” while the fallen angel on my left shoulder shouted ”Yield to temptation! It may not pass your way again.”*

 We never did go for a walk that night.  We ended up drinking iced tea on my balcony and wishing on all the stars we saw. I felt like I was back in high school.

 Finally he leaned over and whispered, “I wish I could kiss you” 

 “You’re in luck,” I said, “because granting wishes is my specialty.” 

 All kinds of wishes came true that night.  He had wanted experience and got it.  As for me, it was a night well spent with someone I didn’t know from Adam. 

 *Robert A. Heinlein

The Angel in the Piazza

Do you ever get that feeling that something special is going to happen? You’re going somewhere new or different and you just know that someone or something is out there waiting for you. There’s a pervasive feeling of anticipation. It inhabits your pores. Your nerve endings are on high alert and you’re paying close attention so as not to miss it. (Whatever it happens to be.) 

That was exactly the feeling I had when I moved to Italy last year. Logically, I knew that I would experience lots of new things: Eating – that’s a given. Praying – well everyone knows God lives in Italy; just look at the real estate. Finally – love. It was the anticipation of falling in love – if only temporarily – that had me juiced from the get go.

 Would it really happen? Who would it be with? Where would I meet him? What would we do? Where would we go? 

Someone once told me that, in Italy, falling in love is a national pastime, much like soccer.  And over the years I had discovered that to be true. 

Italian men and women use terms of endearment with abandon. I’d experienced the same thing myself via harmless little social encounters that made me feel that much more desirable even when I was in a relationship. 

Ciao Caro! (Hello my dear)

Grazie Tesora (Thank you treasure) 

Salve Bellezza (Hello Beauty)

These expressions and many others just like them awaited me on daily basis at the butcher’s, the newsstand, and  my local coffee bar.  When I’d drop by for my daily cappu in b, which is short for cappuccino in bicchiere, or cappuccino in a glass, the owner would greet me with his customary, “Ciò che un bel fiore.” (What a beautiful flower!) Like many Italian men, he was so hot you could use him to boil water. I ask you, how could you not fall in love? 

And then there are those other times when I came across someone so totally unexpected I would wonder if my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. 

That was the case one evening after my usual Friday night dance class at the local dance studio. I had just spent an hour and half learning how to do the Mambo Triestino – a sort of local version of salsa – when my friends in the class invited me out to dinner at the local pizzeria.  

Fearless as ever, I went along and ended up making conversation in a mixture of English, Italian, French and a bunch of words I must have just made up for the occasion because I had my little party in stitches. By eleven o’clock, I was done and started my walk back to my little studio apartment on the Via Filzi. To do so, I had to cross one of the most beautiful squares in Italy: the Piazza dell’Unita d’Italia, or the Piazza Unita for short.

 The bars along the square were crowded with locals talking and socializing. Partygoers spilled out from the bars and onto the street. They milled about small cocktail tables enjoying their smokes in the crisp night air. The energy of the place made me smile to myself. And that smile didn’t go unnoticed.

 I looked up in time to see a young man in his 20s dressed as a Franciscan monk approaching me. A brown robe hung on his thin frame; the white, knotted belt was there merely for decoration. He had a mass of brown curls that framed his face like a halo, and he was swaying slightly. Too much altar wine?  

He reminded me of a slightly drunken cherub, who, after celebrating too much, had fallen off of a cloud and landed right in the center of the square. But my cherub was no angel. He had one of those drinking mechanisms that you see at major sporting events strapped to his back with a long tube like straw tucked neatly under his belt. Ah, so the belt did serve a purpose.

 Behind him I saw a group of his friends encouraging him. “Vai, Vai!” they said. And so he approached me with a beatific smile. I thought it was all some Italian version of a bachelor party, so I waited to see what he wanted. He started to explain something very sweetly, in Italian, and I didn’t understand what he was saying.

 “Ah darlin’,” I said, “I’m afraid you got the wrong girl tonight. “Parlo un po d’Italiano ma non molto bene.” (I had run out of words – well at least the Italian ones – at the restaurant.) He quickly switched to English and began his speech again. 

His name was Angelo (appropriate), and he was in the Piazza that night collecting kisses from beautiful women because he just passed his bar exam. He was studying law at the University of Trieste.  And he wanted to know was if I would kiss him.

  Kiss him? Kiss him?

 “Certo caro,” I said. “How could I not kiss an angel?”

An Apple a Day

A little knowledge..

 

If  I’ve learned one thing since my divorce it’s  this –  When it comes to having sex,  men are like apples.  All you have to do is pick  one.  Having said that keep in mind what happened to Eve.

Post It Notes

Coming soon posts from New Orleans to Tokyo and a few places in between.

PS if any one knows of any good places to dance  Salsa or Tango in either of these cities, I would love to hear from you!

The Stranger on the Train

Grand Place

Paris is a convenient place to do many things: shop, eat, sightsee, fall in love and, of course, dream.  It’s also a good place to decamp for a few days to conduct business both in the city, and in those neighboring countries easily reached by high speed trains.  As such, I had planned a meeting in Amsterdam and booked a round trip first class ticket on the Thalys line – food included.  

It’s a four hour train ride one way, and since I had a mid-morning meeting, I caught the first train at 6:10 a.m.  This meant a 4:30 a.m. wake up call.  I had a long day ahead of me but I calculated I’d be back in Paris and in bed by ten. 

I love train travel; it’s fast, efficient (or so I thought) and ranks low on the hassle scale.  All you have to do is board.  Today’s cars now have WiFi so you can even do a little business as you watch the bucolic countryside speed by frame by frame.

This was to be a quick in and out trip.  So after a meeting with customers and a bite of lunch,  I headed back to the Amsterdam Central Station.  Since my scheduled departure was for 4:30 p.m.,  I bided my time in the lounge like a good soldier and dutifully worked on my email.  My plan was to finish everything before boarding the train so I could enjoy the view on the ride back.

About an hour into the trip, I suddenly found myself in the parallel universe of Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Although in my case it ended up being: trains, buses, commuter trains and another high speed train. That’s right; we had a mechanical malfunction that necessitated alternate means of transportation. My 8:00 p.m. arrival in Paris went from 10:00 p.m. and then to midnight, but there was no guarantee.   

With no further instructions, we were left standing on a platform in Brussels waiting for a special train that would arrive in about an hour’s time. Maybe. They weren’t very big on giving out information.  In fact, the station was all but deserted except for about 200 tired, hungry, and angry travelers.

 The stranger next to me looked over and shrugged.  “Que veux -tu?”  (What do you want?) He said to me in French with a Gallic shrug.  Apparently this was a regular occurrence.  Meanwhile, an Italian businessman yelled into his telefonino – he had a business dinner in Paris at nine  – you could say that his goose was cooked. He wasn’t going to be doing any deals that night.

As for me, I gave up fighting the system years ago.  I had just spent five months living in Italy.  The two things it taught me were patience and surrender. I could hear my Italian grandmother’s voice in my head, “And this too shall pass.”  I would get back to Paris – but just when was debatable.

Just then the stranger turned to me. He was dressed in a casual suit, matching pants and jacket with a pumpkin-colored shirt. His burgundy shoes had laces that were intricately woven back and forth through the eyelets.  He caught me looking at his shoes and laughed.  “It throws off those big corporate types – they can’t figure out how the shoes stay on…and when I show up with out a tie…oooh la la,” he said.

He was charming and funny and spoke to me in French, which was a compliment because I was sure he spoke English as well. Anytime someone in France (or in this case Belgium) lets you blunder on in French without switching immediately to English means one of two things: one, either your French is pretty damn good, or he is an extremely gracious person. Since I was rather tired that evening, I suspected it was the latter. Although normally my French is pretty damn good. 

“Say, listen!” he said. “If the train doesn’t show up at midnight, would you like to share a car back to Paris? I’ve already spoken to that gentleman (he pointed to the Italian) and he’d be interested as well.”  A woman with a briefcase on the platform overheard us and asked if she could join our party.  We figured it would cost us about 25,00 euro apiece and would save us the cost of a hotel in Brussels because the next regularly scheduled train out was 6:25 a.m.

As most people milled about aimlessly, we at least had a plan.  Each of us had lived this scenario dozens of times before in at least as many countries.  As seasoned business travelers, we were nothing if not resourceful.

Quite unexpectedly my co-voyager with the cool shoes leaned over and told me he was going to the Grand Place for a beer and asked if I would I like to join him.  A beer sounded awfully good – and perhaps some Belgian frites. And this time I would take the mayonnaise dammit! I had suffered enough; I was going to treat myself. 

His name was Richard (Ree – char) and he was retired from corporate life but not from service. With his two children grown and on their own, he spent most of his time setting up co-ops in third world countries, most of which were run by women, to help fund village necessities like schools and running water. 

He was tall and broad and had the powerful build of a rugby player. His salt and pepper hair was fashionably close cropped. His brown eyes were soft and gentle.  He had beautiful hands that he used to punctuate his stories, of which he had many.

 You could tell that he was a guy you could turn to in a crisis – calm, cool and collected.   You could see it by the way he organized our little rental car group on the platform.  Fortunately we didn’t have to rent a car.  The special train that they had commandeered just for us would get us back to Paris around midnight.  “It really is too bad,” Richard said. “We could have stayed here at the square and talked all night.”  I was a little disappointed myself but happy to be heading back to the hotel and my bed. It had been a long day.

As we walked back to the train station he took my computer bag and offered me his jacket. The night had grown cold.  I had told him a little bit about me but gave him much less information than he offered about himself. I had decided after leaving Italy that I was no longer going to give so much of myself away.  I didn’t tell him much about my Italian experience but being a man and French – he filled in the blanks himself.

There was a look of unspoken understanding his eyes.  He shook his head and smiled.  “Something tells me you’re a very strong woman,” he said.   I blinked back the tears. I wasn’t going to go there.  “And stubborn,” he laughed as he gave me an affectionate nudge.  This was a good man I thought.

We talked for another hour on the train back to Paris and the Gare du Nord.  It’s funny. I had shared more with this stranger in two hours than I had with my ex-husband in 20 years of marriage.   Things like this often made me wonder about timing and destiny. Why him, why now, why tonight?  What if we had met … but we hadn’t. So speculation was useless.

Richard had another three-hour drive from Paris back home so he figured he would stop and take a hotel room along the way.  He was too tired to make it in one go,  and he phoned a friend to let her know his situation.  They had planned to have dinner, but it would have to be postponed. He insisted on sharing a taxi so he could drop me off at my hotel and continue on to where his car was parked.

“Say listen, if you ever want to live in France – with no complications, just to try it, you’re welcome to stay at my place. I am never there and you can pick up the keys with the neighbor.  I won’t trouble you.”

Something told me this man would not be any trouble at all. On the taxi ride over to my hotel, he held my hand. And as the taxi parked, he ran one of his beautiful hands down the side of my face and under my chin.  As he tipped my face up, he said, “Tu as des beaux yeux, tu sais.”  It was a classic line from the old French film “Quai des brumes.”  Jean Gabin says it to a starry-eyed Michele Morgan.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37mq2FpQZF4

There was a look of such tenderness and regret in his eyes that I had to look away for a second.  There was no future for us – only now, this moment.  And although the offer of his house was generous, we both knew I wouldn’t be staying in his place in the country (especially not without him I thought) .  Nor would he be staying with me tonight.  I was too tired, both mentally and physically to invite him up.  And so I took his hands in mine,  leaned in,  kissed him  and said – so do you.

The almost affair to remember…

I go to Paris often on business but that doesn’t mean I ever take it for granted.  When I spend time in Paris, it’s as if I live there. I frequent the local markets, even though I’m only taking fruit back to my hotel room. I eat in local cafes, and I walk and read in the parks.  I feel at home there. 

One Sunday evening, I decided to go to a café in my neighborhood, the 17^th arrondissement, for dinner.  The waiter seated me in the window so I could watch les Parisiennes passing by – effortlessly chic in their casual attire.  How do they do it, I wondered.  There was nothing effortless about it for me. I sometimes felt like I was trying too hard to blend in – a dead giveaway if ever there was one.    

I’m not quite sure who noticed who first but when I glanced up, I caught the eye of a man walking by.  He smiled. I smiled.  He continued on.

He then turned around and backtracked a few steps.  He was very handsome in a way that usually appeals to me:  tall with dark russet colored hair that curled about his neck and a neatly trimmed beard; call it Hugo Boss meets Patagonia.  He looked at me and made a sign that indicated he wanted to approach. I shrugged because really, what’s the use, I thought.

He inclined his head to try again and so I figured, oh why not.  I beckoned him into the restaurant.  After a brief flirtatious conversation he asked me out to dinner for the next night.  And I accepted.

We agreed to a time and a place, and he left, but not before taking my hand and kissing it. Just as he was about to go he turned back, smiled and said, “You have beautiful eyes.”  

His name was Dominico (Mino) and he was originally from Sicily.  Great I thought – another Italian man (my past is littered with them) and in Paris of all places.   It was the Latin factor times two! Just what I was getting myself into?

The next evening, we met at the appointed time and place, and he was as charming and as attentive as the day before. Since this was his neighborhood, he took me to a nearby chic café for a drink before we were to head off to a local Italian restaurant for dinner.  We kept the conversation light as we walked and talked; it was also slightly suggestive of what Mino had in mind for “dessert.” 

And while I had spent the day considering my options and thinking about what I would do, I had firmly decided that it would be only dinner this time. Since I came to Paris often, there would always be other opportunities. But I wasn’t about to show my cards too early and define the parameters of the evening because ,after all, I could still change my mind. 

I learned quite a bit about Mino over drinks at the café that night, although how much of it was true I couldn’t say. An art dealer by profession, he had lived in several countries before making his home in France. He had just built a home in St. Barts and kept a house in Spain, as well as an ancestral place in Sicily.  He was kind enough to invite me to all of them.

Rather than get caught up in the hype, I found myself more like a disinterested observer.  I was in control here and could say “yes” or “no” as it pleased me.  And so far it pleased me to say “no.”  He was charming and courteous and he punctuated his conversation with just enough fleeting physical contact, without coming on too strong, to make me feel desired. He was very good, but I wasn’t falling for any of it, not this time.

I found his Sicilian bravado and self-confidence entertaining. And despite the fact that the average Sicilian man ensures that his lover has at least five orgasms to his one, it wasn’t long before Mino realized that it would likely take more than this one night to demonstrate his ethnic prowess.  Not that it wasn’t tempting;  it was, especially since the last time I had sex was – well, I don’t even want to think about it.  And although Iwas really missing the physical contact coupling brings, this time I decided to let my head overrule my hormones.

Every time I steered the conversation away from the topic of making love, because he didn’t just have “sex,” he seemed a bit more discouraged. Up until this point he had ignored cell phone calls, but it wasn’t long before he had to take a call from his cleaning lady. Apparently she had lost the key to his apartment and couldn’t lock the door.  Even more than his house in St. Barts, I was very impressed by the fact that he had a cleaning lady who worked evenings.  He smoothly explained that a late-afternoon meeting with clients at his place had left it in a bit of a mess and, as such, it needed some tidying up. 

But perhaps having a clean apartment wasn’t as urgent as he once thought.  Even if I had decided to sleep with him, it certainly wouldn’t have been at his place.  That was very presumptuous and potentially dangerous.  So rather than leave his art-filled apartment open and vulnerable, and since he lived in the neighborhood, I suggested that he go and lock up while I waited for him at the café.  I knew it would be a long wait.

 Still, I decided to give Mino the benefit of the doubt. I gave him 30 minutes. During that time I finished my glass of wine and his, and I had a nice chat with the waiter.  And then I paid the bill.  Yes, I paid it and was glad to do so because the evening had cost me far less then it could have had I fallen for this handsome man on a rainy night in Paris.

 In the not too distant past, I would have naively mistaken Mino’s intentions for true interest. I would have enjoyed my night and would have wanted more. I always want more especially when there’s none to be had.  Rather than be upset or disappointed, I was amused at the turn of events and rather proud of the fact that I had navigated Mino and my biological desires so well. That night I walked back to the hotel with a smile on my face that had nothing to do with sex – imagine that?

 *excerpted and condensed from my book